


Going Clubbing

by orfaeus (hazy_daisy)



Category: Wanderlust (RP)
Genre: Fire, Gen, Mediocre writing, Modern AU, Original Characters - Freeform, Original Universe, Other, brotherly bonding time, clubs and drinking, doesn't matter if we created the universe ourselves, i guess, orpheus and achilles fuck some shit up, shut up it's totally fanfiction, there's more spilling of alcohol than drinking of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 11:11:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20599808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazy_daisy/pseuds/orfaeus
Summary: Achilles, as always, has great ideas; like breaking into their piece-of-shit dad's club and wrecking whatever they can find.Orpheus, as always, has some doubts about Achilles's ideas; but he'll follow his older brother anywhere.(See, the title's funny because clubbing can mean either going out to a club, or hitting something with a club, and—)





	Going Clubbing

**Author's Note:**

> yeet let's throw down some disclaimers  
\- i'm sort of scared that my characterization for achilles is kind of shit, i'm sorry mars (he deserved better)  
\- don't expect a coherent storyline or progression of emotion  
\- this could also be tagged "is this how clubs work? fuck if i know"  
\- why are they using baseball bats? because they both like the aesthetic of it. fuck off
> 
> enjoy i guess

“Are we gonna get sued for this?” Resignation hung heavy in Orpheus’s tone. A baseball bat hung idly from his right hand.

Achilles laughed, sharp and short; the kind of laugh you’d hear from someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Or, possibly, from someone with no plan and no intention to worry about it. “Knowing us? Probably.”

If you’d asked what they were doing, either brother would give you a different answer. Only Achilles’s response really mattered, though, because the whole escapade had been his idea in the first place. He called their after-hours activity valediction—or vindication, one of the two. (Orpheus called it a bad idea.)

The older brother worked at the lock on the club’s back door, the one with the least security. He knelt in the street with no regard for the state of his jeans. They’d probably need to be washed after the night, either way. Another baseball bat sat next to him. Orpheus waited close behind, as he’d been doing for most of his life; he aimed a flashlight at the lock for Achilles’s sake, and turned his head every now and then to keep watch.

“Got it,” Achilles exclaimed, perhaps a bit too loudly for someone breaking into their father’s business. Orpheus winced behind him, but nobody appeared to call them out. Achilles grabbed his bat as he stood. Within moments, they had disappeared into the club, leaving only an unlocked door as evidence of their presence in the street.

“Why do I get the feeling we’re going to find Pythios passed out in here somewhere?” Orpheus asked, glancing around the small complex of rooms and offices behind the main floor of the club. Looking down the hallways served as much to check for people as to case the joint. A strand of red-dyed hair fell into his eyes, and he pushed it back as best he could with both his hands full.

Orpheus liked his hair bright red, like fire. It might’ve been a little obnoxious, but he liked his appearance to make a statement. Achilles felt the same, but he’d gone with a bright blue, instead. Neither of their parents had been very happy when the bright hair appeared, but in time, all four sons had dyed their hair; it was too late to say anything, by then.

Achilles kept his gaze straight ahead, focused on a destination. He snorted. “Wouldn’t put it past him.”

A few more seconds passed. Padded footsteps sounded against dark carpet. The only light came from Orpheus’s flashlight; luckily, the hallways were straight, if narrow, and easy to navigate. “I’m worried about him, you know,” Orpheus said, as if reluctant to admit it.

“We know,” Achilles replied, a hint of humor in his tone. “He’s a big boy now, Orpheus. He can fuck up as much of his life partying as he wants.” He pushed open a door, revealing a large space. The light of the flashlight glinted off colored lights on the ceiling. 

“Yeah, I know,” said Orpheus, indicating a rebuttal to follow. “But I don’t want him to really mess things up.” Achilles snorted a laugh. Orpheus aimed a half-hearted glare at the back of his head. “He’s our brother. I’m allowed to be worried about him.”

That was a key difference between Orpheus and Achilles. Orpheus worried too much. Achilles didn’t worry at all, when he could help it.

“At least Cassander’s not a problem child,” was all Achilles had to say, before they were standing in the middle of the dance floor, unlit and scented with sweat and perfume.

“Makes one of us,” Orpheus muttered.

Achilles rolled his eyes, and took the flashlight. “I’ll be right back. Hang tight.” With that, he disappeared, taking the light with him.

Orpheus probably could have followed him, but he took the moment to breathe, alone on the dark dance floor. The lights came on a few moments later; colorful, but not pulsating. He was glad. 

Achilles reappeared a moment later, hefting his baseball bat and casting an appraising eye around the room. He’d stashed the flashlight in his pocket. “Where should we start?”

Orpheus followed suit and looked around. His sigh caught his brother’s attention.

“C’mon. I brought you along because I thought you’d enjoy wrecking Dad’s shit. Don’t tell me you don’t want to smash some of that bastard’s stuff.” Achilles’s tone verged on disapproval.

Orpheus looked guilty, almost. He stayed quiet.

That wasn’t the answer Achilles had been looking for. “Come on, Orpheus!” He still sounded somewhat lighthearted, but a darker tone crept into his voice as he spoke. “You can’t seriously feel bad about doing this. Dad’s a piece of shit. You know that!”

Orpheus met his gaze, though the guilt only became more apparent. “I just—” he let out a helpless breath. “Is cutting more ties the best thing to do? I know Dad’ll never—I mean—” he made a desperate sound. “I’m just not sure…”

A glass table yielded to the force of Achilles’s baseball bat. His younger brother flinched at the sound of glass against hardwood. “Fuck, Orpheus, come on! You know what he did! To me, to you, to fucking Cassander—”

That comment cut through whatever was plaguing him. His tone turned defensive. His grip on his baseball bat tightened. “Of fucking course I know.”

“Then why won’t you hate him?”

Achilles leveled a glare at Orpheus. Not the kind he reserved for their father. Not the kind that simmered with anger, hissed with the fury of snakes and burning dynamite, composed itself of millions upon millions of explosions in his heart. This glare dripped resentment, thick and toxic. Orpheus wasn’t sure who that resentment was really aimed at. Achilles was.

Silence fell, and Orpheus floundered for words. His brother watched, furious, unsympathetic.

“I don’t know,” he said, finally.

Orpheus had practice hiding his emotions. He was good at it. This was not a charming smile, though, put on to please the masses, and Achilles was good at spotting liars.

“Bullshit,” said Achilles, but some of the venom had leaked out of his tone.

Orpheus refused to meet Achilles’s eyes. He focused on the floor, instead, guilt written all over his expression.

“Just tell me,” Achilles demanded. His voice had softened, lost some aggression; loathe as he might’ve been to admit it, he loved his brothers, and he could push aside frustration for a moment for their sakes.

Orpheus let the silence hang for a few moments before he had the words. “What he said, what he did to you guys… It was awful,” he started, glancing nervously at Achilles. The guilty expression came on in full force. “I don’t know, though, I just—” Orpheus let out a shaky breath, gaze darting back to the floor. “I was never a very good kid, you know, and you guys never deserved a single bit of that, but maybe—” an unstable inhale—”maybe he was right, you know, not to—” his voice only got shakier as he spoke. “Not to love me, I mean—”

“Orpheus.” The young man in question glanced up again, startled into silence. Achilles sighed, shook his head, and dropped his baseball bat. “That’s so fucking dumb. Come here.” 

He held out his arms. Orpheus put down his baseball bat, and crossed the few steps between them hesitantly; before he clung to his brother, burying his face in his shoulder.

“Don’t you dare justify what that bastard did,” Achilles told him. His voice might have been a bit harsher than necessary. “You didn’t deserve that shit any more than the rest of us.”

Orpheus nodded against his shoulder. Achilles patted his back, allowed him that comfort for a moment more, and then let go. “Now, come on. If you won’t fuck up Dad’s shit for your own sake, do it for Cassander. Or Pythios.”

Orpheus nodded again, wiping at his eyes. He took a breath, and when he looked back up at his brother, Achilles could see new resolve in his eyes.

That was the thing, Achilles noticed. What it always came down to, in the end, was that Orpheus never fought for himself. He’d fight for other people, for the approval of other people, but never for his own vindictions. It provided another striking difference between Achilles and his brother; Achilles sought out revenge any chance he could.

Orpheus clung to the past, no matter how dismal it might have been. Achilles fought his way out of it.

“First things first,” Achilles said, retrieving his bat. Orpheus did the same. “Let’s smash all these fucking tables.” His trouble-making grin appeared once more. The mood started to shift back into a tone prime for destruction.

That got a laugh out of Orpheus. The sound was wet with tears, but it brought a smile to his face. “Yeah. Got it.”

Achilles took the first swing, shattering the sentimentality in the room and a glass tabletop. His grin widened with satisfaction. He smashed his bat through another table, kicking over the metal frame with a resounding crash. His laugh echoed with savage delight. If there was one thing Achilles really, truly enjoyed, it was destroying his things. Every broken piece of furniture was a step closer to breaking the man himself.

Orpheus swung experimentally at one table, then another, then another, and the laugh that followed was delighted by the chaos in its own way. 

A few more minutes found the floor covered in glass and dented metal frames, and the brothers standing in front of the bar. Light gleamed off the polished wood that made up the bar itself, curving around a wall lined with shelves of alcohol.

“Should we drink it or smash it all?” Achilles asked, almost gleeful.

“Destroy it,” Orpheus said, red-faced and breathless with anticipation.

That was the answer Achilles had been looking for. 

Orpheus jumped up onto the bar, scuffing the polished finish, and grabbed a bottle of some liquor he’d never heard of. His grin was exhilarated. He turned, cocked the bottle up over his head, and hurled it across the bar with all the force he could muster. The bottle hit the opposite wall in an explosion of alcohol and colored glass. Achilles laughed like a madman.

Achilles vaulted over the bar. The first thing he did was bring his bat down across the wall, managing to break one of the shelves and several bottles of whiskey. Alcohol soaked his shoes and pants.

The grins of both brothers looked like they might’ve come with fangs, in some other reality.

The tables had been satisfying to break, but there was something musical about the way that the bottles broke. It was a symphony of chaos, of broken glass, of vindication. Achilles, per usual, found himself a harbinger of chaos. Orpheus, per usual, found himself swept up in it. 

When shards of glass covered the floor, colored and clear, and alcohol had seeped into every crack and pooled on the hardwood and carpet, they stepped back to take in their carnage. The air stunk like tequila and vodka. 

“I want to do more,” Achilles said, speaking as much to the air as he was to Orpheus. His voice hardened as he spoke. His grip on his baseball bat tightened. “It’s not enough. It’s not going to _ hurt _ him enough.”

Orpheus turned to look at his brother. For a moment, he took in Achilles’s expression, his words. “Let’s burn it,” he said, decisively, still focused on his brother’s face.

Orpheus didn’t fight for himself, but he would fight for the people he cared about. He would destroy for Pythios, raze for Cassander—and for Achilles, he would burn the world to the ground. 

A smile tugged at the corner of Achilles’s mouth.

It didn’t take them long to find a lighter, stashed under the bar for cigarettes or the kind of fancy drink that you light on fire. Achilles and Orpheus both liked those kinds of drinks; they shared the same fascination with fire, as something of beauty, something of destruction, something indescribable. Achilles took a moment to toss a few liquor-covered glass shards onto the vinyl covered seats, and then they backed as far into the hallway as they could.

“We’re probably going to have to run,” Achilles said, anticipation glinting in his eyes as he looked at the destroyed bar. “Explosions.”

Orpheus nodded wordlessly, his heart pounding with that same anticipation. 

“Don’t let your shoes catch fire,” Achilles warned, before he clicked open the lighter and tossed it behind the bar.

The effect was instantaneous. Despite the agreement to run, neither brother could help but watch as a pillar of flame lit up the room, blue like Achilles’s hair and then red like Orpheus’s, roaring with the vengeance of a dragon. Only when the bar caught fire and the blaze started to spread into the main room did Achilles turn to leave, grabbing Orpheus’s hand and laughing wildly as he ran. Orpheus couldn’t help but laugh along. The flashlight fell out of Achilles's pocket; they left it to the flames.

The fire chased them down the hallway, but they were fast runners, and without the alcohol to fuel it, the fire lost its speed. Their feet pounded on the carpet as they ran, bumping against walls on tight turns, laughing giddily. They left alcoholic footprints on the carpet wherever they stepped.

They still ran, even when they’d made it outside into the cool night air and slammed the door behind them. Their footsteps echoed on the pavement, echoed in the night, next to the sound of heavy breathing.

“Should we call the fire department?” Orpheus asked, once they’d stopped to catch their breath. 

“Nah.” Achilles still wore a wicked grin. “Someone’ll call them.” He glanced over in the direction of the club. A plume of smoke already rose to the sky. “Just not before it all burns.”


End file.
